


breathing in your dust

by audenrain



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audenrain/pseuds/audenrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>as usual, Hamilton is pushing past his limits; as usual, Laurens is around to show him the error of his ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathing in your dust

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trash for Hamilton getting pushed around and taken care of, so... y'know, I wrote some. I'd like to say have some shame about it, but I really, really don't...
> 
> title is from "I Wanna Be Yours" by the Arctic Monkeys.

“Hamilton,” came the call once again – soft, but insistent. There was always a peculiar cadence to the way Laurens said his name, as if it had synonyms unknown to the rest of the world. Hamilton furrowed his brow and ignored it, enticing as it was.

“ _Hamilton_.”

“Sleep, my dear Laurens,” Hamilton answered, blotting the tip of his quill. “You have fallen asleep with worse distractions than a little lamplight.”

Behind him, Laurens let out a long, deep sigh. “Your constitution is still fragile. You will work yourself into sickness again. You are exhausted.”

“I am quite alert.” And he was, because he kept giving himself sharp bites on the insides of his cheeks when he caught his head nodding. But an hour more, and he would be finished all the work for which he had been allotted three more days; Washington would not fail to notice.

“You were just yawning.”

“You are mistaken.”

Another sigh, and then the rustling of thin blankets being shifted and Laurens’ footsteps padding over to him. Hamilton shivered at the touch to the back of his neck, although Laurens’ hands were warm from being tucked in his bed and Hamilton thought his skin had to be much colder.

“Am I, now?” Laurens asked, and his voice had gone from exasperated and cajoling to something altogether darker. The loop on Hamilton’s next _g_ swooped a little too low.

“Laurens—”

Laurens’ hand slid over until he was cradling Hamilton's jaw; his thumb nestled beneath Hamilton’s ear, fingers resting on his Adam’s apple. Hamilton’s pen halted, just above the page.

“Well, then, Ham. It ought to be simple. Whatever you do, _don’t_ yawn.”

It ought to be simple, Hamilton agreed. But of course, once the idea was placed in his head, he felt another one building, the urge starting in his temples and sinking down – his jaw twitched even as he clenched it. Laurens laughed, a soft, well-meaning sound.

“Up, Hamilton,” he said, and he plucked the pen from Hamilton’s slack fingers.

“If you would only let me finish—”

“You are falling asleep at your desk.”

“I am _fine_ —”

Laurens was well-muscled, leaner from the hard winter but no less solid for it. He had always, even before the fever had weakened Hamilton’s frame, been the stronger of them. He grasped Hamilton by the upper arms and lifted him out of his chair, nudging it aside and then turning him around until he was pinned up against the edge of the desk. His hands fell back to brace himself on the surface, and he had to only _hope_ that he was not touching wet ink.

“If you insist on not being tired,” Laurens said, stepping in closer, one hand dropping to the back of Hamilton’s leg, dangerously high up, “I believe I can help with that.”

Hamilton’s heart was beating harder, his pulse pounding in his throat. He felt light-headed, probably a combination of hunger and the need for sleep and probably also because his feelings on Laurens’ show of force were… mixed. Laurens’ arm was wrapped around his back, supporting him, and his other hand on Hamilton’s thigh was holding his weight just a little bit off the ground.

Laurens took the last step to bring their bodies flush together, and slipped a thigh between his parted legs.

Hamilton’s breath hitched, but he arched a brow, making his best attempt at insouciance. “You must think me an invalid,” he said, as if arousal was not a twisting heat low in his stomach. Laurens, who was leaning in and nosing his way into Hamilton’s hair to kiss his neck, was not helping the situation, either. Or perhaps he was. That all depended on what the ideal outcome was. Hamilton had not yet decided.

“I do not think you incapable; merely reticent,” Laurens said, and his breath was beautifully, torturously hot on Hamilton’s throat. Hamilton could not help but strain his neck to present it better. “That’s why you have me.” Laurens’ teeth closed around a tendon there, and this time, when Hamilton’s breath caught, he knew it was an audible thing – a hiccup that made Laurens let out an amused huff, stirring the hair at the back of his neck.

Hamilton knew, if he made himself clear, he could shake Laurens off and force himself to keep going, pick up the quill again with his aching hand and ignore the crackling tension in his shoulders and pretend that Laurens, sprawled only a few feet away, was not the most inviting thing he had known since the war began.

But the sheer _effort_ it would take –

“I should work,” Hamilton said, in such a feeble tone it was almost playful. He pressed his hips forward, for good measure, against the hard muscle of Laurens’ thigh, intending it to be only a token of surrender – but it felt so _good_ , so blindingly, shockingly good – somehow he always managed to forget just how well their hips slotted together – and he had to do it again, a shameless thrust that pushed a little gasp out of him.

He could feel Laurens’ mouth spread in a smile against his skin. “No, my dear boy,” Laurens said, laying a kiss on the spot where he had bitten. “You should go to bed.” He hauled Hamilton up further until Hamilton was forced to sling his arms round Laurens’ shoulders; sitting astride Laurens’ leg, only the smallest fraction of his weight supported by the desk, he felt terribly unbalanced. He knew, with mingling terror and love, that Laurens had the power to knock his whole world off-kilter, just by his departure.

But Laurens’ grip was so firm, and Hamilton could feel the strength in every part of him. He seemed impossibly constant.

“If you are so determined to work,” Laurens went on, “focus your efforts on _this_.” He flexed his thigh, and oh, just the _tensing_ of his muscles was enough to make Hamilton bite down on his tongue trying to keep quiet.

He wanted to focus on _this_ in a myriad of ways: he wanted to come here, now, in his uniform trousers, but he also wanted Laurens to lower him to the ground, let him mouth his way across _Laurens’_ trousers, pull them down and taste his very essence. He wanted to choke on Laurens, until there was no room in his mouth for discourse or debate, only service, only pleasure.

He bucked up again, willing Laurens to help him – to tense or move or do anything at all to relieve this unbearable pressure that only seemed to mount – and this time he lost the battle and moaned, a broken and startling sound in the hush of the tent.

“Little lion,” Laurens murmured, right in his ear now, and Hamilton shuddered hard at the nickname, usually so amicable and innocent. “How am I going to quiet your roars?”

 _Roar_ seemed like an uncharitable description, but just then Laurens tensed again and it wrenched a thin, quavering sound from Hamilton.

“Yes, exactly,” Laurens said. The words were calm but he was not unaffected: it showed in his voice, a little rougher than usual, a little deeper. Hamilton rather thought Laurens liked his roaring.

“Laurens,” Hamilton managed – a perfectly unremarkable utterance to be overheard, except that he could hear the rasping desperation in every vowel.

“You will have to be quiet, dear Hamilton, or I will have to stop your mouth.”

Hamilton abandoned any pretense of dignity: he dropped his face to Laurens’ shoulder and filled his mouth with the fabric there before he bit through his own tongue. He could not – he had never been able to keep quiet, not in any capacity. Laurens’ laughed a little, a gentle sound.

“Or you could do it yourself,” he said, sounding absurdly fond. “Poor Ham. All the euphoria you have for life is too much for your person.”

There was not, in any language Hamilton knew, a word that could sum this up: the wild ecstasy of being pressed up against someone you loved, so close that you could feel the staccato of their pulse – just half a stuttering beat off of your own – so close that you were tempted to think your heartbeats might slip into sync if you only gripped them a little tighter.

Or perhaps there was, but Hamilton had never been good at saying in a single word what he could say in a hundred. The feeling bubbled up inside him, impossible to express even if he wanted to try with Laurens’ shirt between his teeth – but it was necessary, because just then Laurens’ arm shifted him, rolling his hips forward, sending bliss through him in shockwaves, in a string of _yes-yes-yes-yes_. His hands sank into the loose curls of Lauren’s dark hair, around the curve of Laurens’ skull, holding his face to Hamilton’s neck where his open mouth was pressing ardent, hungry kisses.

 _Please_ , he wanted to say, but he clenched his jaw through the next jolt of pleasure and raised his hips to meet it.

“You wanted to work, Hamilton,” Laurens said, his tone low, admonishing. “ _Work_ for it.”

Hamilton did. He kept rocking forward, faster now, his abdominal muscles beginning to ache, breathing hard and ragged through his nose. The sweet, hot shame of it crashed over him in waves, stealing his breath – that Laurens could reduce him to this should have been a humiliation, but it was instead a terrible relief. His hands shook in the thick depths of Laurens’ hair, and he could not have grasped a quill now if his very life depended on it; all he could do was ride Laurens’ thigh and let the wicked pleasure roll through him.

He was good at single-minded pursuit, whatever the goal, and just now the world had narrowed to the cliff ahead – that precipice where he would shatter in his satisfaction, and Laurens would hold him through the aftershocks, and then perhaps he would take Laurens in his mouth (and the thought of it, of salt heavy on his tongue and Laurens’ scent all around him and guiding hands in his hair and an assurance that however loudly he moaned it would be held safe just between the two of them—)

“Well,” Laurens said, and then he was _stepping back_ , his hands firm on Hamilton’s arms as if he anticipated how Hamilton would crumple at his absence. Hamilton took too long to find enough strength in his legs to hold himself up – he shook with the loss, he _ached_ , a hot and physical pain. “You have insisted you do not need sleep, but _I_ do, my dear boy. Holding up both of our weights is a strain, you know, and you have already kept me up.”

“Laurens,” Hamilton gritted through his teeth – he knew he could press a palm to himself and probably finish within moments, but it would be so much better with his Laurens against him. He could feel the cool air where Laurens’ mouth had been on his throat, and craved the heat again.

“Hamilton,” Laurens replied, a vicious gleam in his eye. “I will not do this against your desk. It’s hardly comfortable. Are you _very_ sure you wouldn’t like to retire for the evening?”

Hamilton followed him as if on a leash – and he was, really, he would have crawled the short distance to the bed if Laurens had only asked him – and collapsed onto the cot, more boneless with exhaustion and arousal than he had even realized. The whole of the British army could not have gotten him to his feet. Laurens was above him, around him, his greater weight pinning Hamilton to the mattress and his hip against Hamilton’s hardness, and there was no need for fabric to muffle his cries this time. Laurens swallowed every one of them, licking behind Hamilton’s teeth and sucking on his tongue and pressing closer all the while. Hamilton breathed him in and bucked up, chasing the frantic beat of Laurens’ pulse, and came with a shuddering force that shocked him. Laurens stroked one hand over his forehead, the other over his ribs, like soothing a wild animal, and kept on kissing, holding Hamilton’s keening between their mouths, safe inside their mingled breath.


End file.
